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She had told herself for years that working to preserve a relationship in her position would be far too much to deal with, much less a long distant one. Even as she held his hand and gazed at the stars together, self-doubt calmly chased her like a pursuit predator.
‘How would they make time for one another? How can a relationship persevere when it is between two people of their status? They had been raised in quite opposite homes, even different times. How would they manage it?’
Apparently, the answers to those questions were…alarmingly simple.
They catch time in little moments. Conversations that are picked up and set down through their days -as messages sent over comm often do- that range from current events to simply what the other dreamt about. He sends her pictures of his plants, videos of his crew, images of the new worlds they’re discovering every day. She finds herself sending some back: the plant he gave her, the view from her office, a picture of her favorite part of the gardens.
They holo-call when they can, on the rare occasion they both have time. He has fallen asleep while on call with her: determined to make their date and yet exhausted from his day. She found it humorous at the time. Considered hanging up and letting him rest but… his presence was a welcome reprieve from the day. And she could hear the waterfall going in his room, and the subtle sound of his breath as he rested. She told herself she would meditate for just a little while, and then end their call. Just a bit of time.
She had woken up to his soft laughter. Apparently, she had followed his lead into sleep without realizing.
That was not the last time it would occur, either.
He asks her about her work occasionally: about coworkers, her favorite buildings in their government, her opinions on a few matters. Never anything about policy, or current events that she does not mention first.
It is… refreshing. Not just in that she gets the chance to speak of matters besides politics, but also that she does not have to keep an air of indifference. He… smiles when she tells him of the coworkers she has a particular fondness for. Smiles for her even wider when he manages to get her to admit the ones she cares decidedly less for. She tells him of her staff, of the children of her coworkers, even the quiet inter-representative gossip of the week. The latter of which always makes him laugh, and oh, she adores it when she can make him do so.
—
He talks of his home, of the sea. He speaks of it so warmly, she privately hopes she may one day be able to visit: to see the world that made him. She said as much once, and he smiled so affectionately. And then proceeded to tell her that she would be utterly miserable in just about any season besides the summer, as his coastal home can get quite chilly.
She does not tell him he is wrong -for he very likely is correct- nor does she tell him she cannot be quite convinced that she would be ‘utterly miserable’ at any point that she was with him.
“And you would likely find Ni’Var inhospitable in all but the winter.” She had said instead. “Perhaps it would be in our best interest to plan trips around summers on Kaminar and winters on Ni’Var.”
—
Sometimes, he speaks of the Captains before they leapt into the future. Captain Pike is a frequent fondness: his leadership, his way of speaking to the crew. Captain Georgeou, both from this universe and it’s mirror, and the differences among them. He often regards his mentor with a sort of reverence that reminds her of her childhood heroes, and the people who inspired her to become who she is. He regards her mirror very much like a somewhat-feral house cat: a kind of loving-irritation that she cannot help but smile at when she hears it.
Rarely, he speaks of Captain Lorca. Even more rarely, he speaks of the Ba’ul.
In those moments, she feels as though he would answer any question she asked of him. And there is not a lack of them within her.
She does not ask, in those quiet moments when his admissions sit with them much like the silence after thunder.
She finds herself sharing herself with him, too. Her own home village, the mountains that were her backyard. Her first teenage partner. How she had assumed she would go on to study linguistics until she had to fill her sick friend's position on the debate team one day, and how it changed her whole life’s trajectory.
He seemingly delights when he learns of all of it. Listens to her ramble on about things that no one else would be interested in hearing: the subtle differences in formal Ni’Varan, the variety of dialects across her world and the social differences that went with them, her own home villages dialect. He asks her if he would teach her a few words in her dialect, and she knows he cannot possibly know that asking her to do so is incredibly romantic for someone to do. Just as she knows that he does not know his gift of a plant he cultivated for her is -by her own cultures gift-giving practices- just about a declaration of love in of itself. And yet she finds herself… giddy, just thinking of it.
Sometimes, she mentions her sisters. Both of them. T’Lanna and… her.
He seems rather fond of hearing of the childish tales between her and T’Lanna. All the times they got away with nonsense, the times they decidedly did not get away with it. Her younger sister is the ‘wildfire of the family’ according to him, and he says it with a fondness that does not escape her. Doubtless is that he sees a bit of Michael in her.
He could ask her, when she carefully steps around speaking of her older sister beyond a few cursory words. He could ask, and she would tell him. But the words to tell him outright stick to her tongue stubbornly: like the thorns that bind it and prick at her whenever she thinks of her are now refusing to let themselves be shown to someone else. Not without a fight.
Saru does not instigate that fight. He does not ask. Instead, he asks her lightly if he may see pictures of T’Lanna, and then following that asks whether T’Lanna “has ever had brown hair like her sister’s, or did she simply come into this world with dilithium-blue hair?”
—-
Every little moment they find together, every conversation that seems to make time fly by. Every shared call as one or both of them rests, every picture sent. She has not seen him in person in a few weeks, and yet-
She cares for him even more, with each passing day.
It still is not simple: she misses him, she frets for his safety. She feels guilt when she sees his messages unanswered for hours or even days after long trips. Yet, she finds it is also -paradoxically- easy. To adore him, to answer him. To fall asleep to his voice or replay his voice messages while she works. It may not be convenient, and it takes great effort to continue to try and plan for time together, yet it is not a chore in any regard. The act of caring for him comes to her as easy as breathing.
Months ago, that easy affection scared her greater than many things could.
Today, it terrifies her more to think of ever having to part with it.
—
Time together -in person- can be so limited.
She is here for a conference, he is here for repairs. They have a fleeting two days of overlap, even less time in the hours they actually have free for one another. She should be exhausted after a day of negotiations and social pleasantries.
And yet, when he appears just as her energy wanes, she finds herself refreshed even by the sight of him. And when he leans into her with an air of secrecy and asks if he may steal her away for a private walk in his ships gardens?
Oh, she feels as though she is young again: sneaking away from her parents' gaze to meet her first teenage partner out under the covers of night.
She is helpless but to abandon the event to leave with him, darting to the exit as quietly as they can and barely containing her joy as they leave.
—
Saru hands her a cup of tea. Above them, the floating mycelia brush in the hybrid willow tree. Their soft idle motions sound not unlike wind. Discovery’s gardens around them are empty at this time of simulated night. They are as alone as they can be on such a busy ship.
He shyly brushes his fingers on her leg where she’s curled up next to him. She cannot help but feel even more fond of him.
“Would you tell me more of your last expedition? I believe you had left off at the point where you and the away team had reached the lush waterfall.”
She could get lost in conversation with him for hours. She could listen to him talk of his home indefinitely. She could fall into meditation as he describes his love of warm waters lapping at his legs, his favorite spring flowers. Drift into dreams hearing him describe the pink geothermal pools near his new home and fondly telling her “you would adore them, even if you do not care much for water.” His voice is soothing, yes. But his passion? His care as he tells her the minute details of the things that he loves? The way he adores when she tells him of her interests? The way they both talk with their hands in a way that seems to mirror each other?
His eyes light up when he talks of water, of his plants-
-when he looks at her.
His hand comes up to cradle her face. She cannot help but lean into it, and his fondness washes over her like a cool breeze on a particularly hot summer day.
Ni’Varan culture often does not allow for much intimate touching beyond bondmates, and even so, much of that takes place behind closed doors. Close contact can be so overwhelming for many. And with a non-telepathic individual -who’s culture often depends on touch- after she spent so long without a partner? She anticipated every touch with him to be overwhelming: something she would have to acclimate to, or something they would have to spend hours negotiating.
And yet: from the moment she held his hand in hers, his presence met hers and she found herself without words.
His mind, his emotions. His mind meets hers like a gentle tide washing upon a beach, convincing little grains of sand to dance with his as he moves. He is unyielding and yet so patient with her. He never demands touch, and yet she finds herself answering every subtle signal that he wishes for it.
He is looking at her again, with considering eyes. His thumb strokes over her cheek, brushing her neural point like a kiss. He sets his tea down. Gently takes hers from her.
She hardly needs his guiding hands to help her slide into his embrace.
Oh, other partners had given her touch, affection, shallow melds. All of it was in the name of casual sex or an attempt at building a relationship they both knew would always come second to duty. His touch is different. His touch is so sensual. So soft and addictive. Teasing her skin with brushes of his fingertips, letting his emotions spark over it. He holds her face so gently. Kisses her jaw, her cheek, her neural points.
He holds her like she is something small, but not fragile. He wraps his arms around her waist and holds her to him like he is greedy for her presence. Like she is a treasure more valuable than anything he has ever seen.
He makes her laugh when he strokes down the shell of her ear. Sigh when his hand creeps up the back of her neck to thread his fingers in her hair.
He nips her earlobe, and it is as sweet as it is teasing.
He has no hesitation in trailing his lips over her neck. Letting his hands become firmer in their hold on her hips as she presses closer to him. He sucks endless little marks into her throat, down the cords of her neck. Scrapes his teeth along fresh bruises because he knows it makes her shudder.
She had rarely found herself purring -outside of a healing trance or a particularly soothing trip to the bathhouses- before their relationship. Yet nearly every time they meet like this, she finds herself helplessly trilling under his touch.
It is warm, possessive in such an adoring way. Every brush of his lips reminds her that he does not mark her to own her out of ego, but out of adoration of her form. That adoration, that naked and wanting affection is so much, so new and inviting and intoxicating. He does not do this even to offer sex. She knows this: for all they have discussed in preferences and navigating touch, sex has yet to become the true topic of conversation.
She still finds herself craving his touch like no other lover. Not just for baser pursuits but something… more. Something intimate. Finds herself purring in his arms as she wraps around him and he sets himself to make her whimper under his mouth. He touches her so sensually: as though he could not care less if it ever leads to more, he simply delights in her skin on his. Delights in every soft touch he gives and every touch she gives in return even if it is hesitant or explorative.
His people’s ways of affection are so different from hers. Causal touches for him would be declarations of possessive, carnal love on Ni’Var. It is dizzying to remind herself that their cultural differences are a factor: especially as he seems to go above and beyond every cultural indication of a passionate, considerate and suave lover. Especially as every one of those gestures come from a man whom she knows is so gentle. So old-fashioned and respectful-
-and apparently, strong enough to lift her into his arms and his lap with little effort. She has never been one who found physical prowess more than mildly interesting in a lover, but from him…
They end up leaning into the trunk of the tree, his forehead to hers as she pants, willing her body to calm itself even as she can feel heat and adoration coursing through her. Oh, like this, his mind is so clear for her. So sharp and warm and inviting
His fingers stroke under her chin.
“Are you alright, rannah?” He asks so softly.
‘Rannah?’
“Yes.” She tells him. “I am simply lost in my thoughts today.”
“Ah.” He murmurs softly, like she makes perfect sense. She cannot help but feel herself grow fonder. “I hope they are not too troublesome of thoughts.”
“Not at all.” She answers back. Her hand brushes his chin as she rests it gently on his neck. “May I ask… why is it that you call me ‘rannah’? Or is it ‘Rinnah’? I have heard it pronounced differently, and do not know the word.”
He looks away, clearly flustered.
“If it is simply some kind of abbreviation of my name, I do not mind,” she tells him. She understands that humans occasionally do so along with many other worlds, perhaps it is a Kelpian trait as well.
He shakes his head.
“It-“ he starts. Takes a breath. “In my time, when someone was beloved to you, you would call them by something you loved. Or perhaps, something that would be beloved by many. ‘Rannah’ is the traditional word for… flower.”
‘He- beloved. I am beloved. He calls me-‘
“Well,” he continues, stumbling. “Rannah traditionally means ‘the first of the spring flowers’, but as language evolved, the word for flower is now ‘Rinnah’, and your name sounds quite a bit like “teh’rinnah” which is a particular kind of desert flower, and I-“
‘Desert flower. Spring flower-‘
“You think of me like a flower?” She asks him quietly. No one has ever- well, she is not-
“You are...” He quietly sighs. “Winters can be particularly grueling along the coast lines of Kaminar. The first of the spring flowers has often been quite a relief and wonder for myself and others. Proof that warmth is possible, that there is hope among the cold winds.” He looks back at her, finally, meeting her eyes. Strokes her cheek so softly. “Desert flowers are a stubborn source of resilience: to grow so boldly in such a climate….” He lets his fingers rest along the neural points of her cheeks.
“Desert flowers are also beautiful. And I find it hard to believe that our Makers could create something as wonderful as you -with a name so similar to it- and have it be mere coincidence.”
‘That, that is…’
“I-“ she stumbles. She is at a loss for words. That is possibly the most- how could he simply just-
He presses their foreheads together.
“I do hope you do not mind if I continue to call you ‘rinnah’.” He breathes softly.
Oh, he could call her whatever he likes and she would not mind. Especially when he thinks of her as ‘beloved’. His name -oddly enough, does sound like a word in Romulan: Sa’rul, the term used to reference the matriarch of old, yet now it simply means ‘heart of one's home’.
It may yet be too early to tell him so. However…
“I do not mind.” She confirms to him softly. Returns his kiss as his fingers curl around hers so softly. “But only if I may call you ‘ashal’ in return. Or perhaps ‘e-lev’?” She asks the latter fondly, if a bit teasingly.
“I know ‘ashal’ …” he sighs consideringly, shifting her in his embrace as he matches her tone. “Dare I ask what ‘e-lev’ means?”
“Love-devil.” She tells him with a small smile. “An endearment to Romulans.”
“Ah,” he says, but the spark in his eyes makes her want to laugh. “And I suppose my devilish crime is stealing you away for a few selfish hours?”
“I could have had a very lovely conversation with Laira in the time I have been here, you know.” She teases back ever-so lightly. Gods, when has she ever teased? And so boldly? He brings something out of her. Perhaps that is his devilish crime.”
“Oh, you stop that,” Saru teases back with a fond shake of his head. He pulls her in even closer. Gods, she is practically in his lap, and all she does is lean even further into his embrace.
—
‘How would they make time for one another?’
Time does not need making. They give each other every moment they can. They know the other will be there. She… she knows he will be there, on the other end, whenever or wherever it is that he sees her messages. If there is an opportunity to see one another, they take it together, with equal excitement. And every moment means the world to her, and it is enough.
‘How can a relationship persevere when it is between two people of their status?’
Arguably, better than between herself and any number of her associates who may have been a more ‘logical’ choice. He is not under her command, nor is she to him. They have no influence over one another or each other’s politics. If Ni’Var ever had to leave the Federation…
He would not hold it against her. And she has no doubt that they both pray that day never comes.
‘They had been raised in quite opposite homes, even different times.’
Sand and water are not enemies. His home has small deserts, hers has a number of lakes. Time is just as granular and fluid as them both. She can dream of the day she uses her wealth of unused leave to spend a summer holiday in Kaminar, and he can imagine their days when he comes to spend his on a quiet winter holiday in her sister's home in the mountains. And in between, the Federation binds them both: a literal middle ground for the fleeting opportunities they have to spend in each other's arms.
‘How would they manage it?’
Perhaps not easily, but they do. She is the President of her people, he is both Ambassador and First Officer of his. But here? Here in his arms, she is his desert rose, and he is -even if she does not yet voice it- the heart of her home. Here, she is cherished and adored and he is wanted and beloved. Here, they belong only to one another.
And somehow, even this one little moment makes it more than enough.